“Hello. My name is Walker. We received a transmission from a friend. Is there anyone else there?”
“Ask them where they are,” Courtnee hissed.
“Where exactly are you?” Walker added, before releasing the switch.
The tiny speakers popped.
“We are nowhere. You’ll never find us. Stay away.”
There was a pause, a hiss of static.
“And your friend is dead. We killed him.”
20
The water inside the suit was freezing, the air cold, the combination lethal. Juliette’s teeth chattered noisily while she worked the knife. She slid the blade into the soggy skin of the suit, the feeling of having been here before, having done all this once, unmistakable.
The gloves came off first, the suit destroyed, water pouring out of every cut. Juliette rubbed her hands together, could barely feel them. She hacked away at the material over her chest, her eyes falling to Solo, who had gone deathly still. His large wrench was missing, she saw. Their supply bag was gone as well. The compressor was on its side, the hose kinked beneath it, fuel leaking from the loose filling cap.
Juliette was freezing. She could hardly breathe. Once the chest of the suit was cut open, she wiggled her knees and feet through the hole, spun the material around in front of herself, then tried to pry the velcro apart.
Her fingers were too senseless to do even this. She ran the knife down the joint instead, sawing the velcro apart until she could find the zipper.
Finally, squeezing her fingers until they were white, she pulled the small tab until it was free of the collar. The collar off, she threw the suit away from herself. The thing weighed double with all the water in it. She was left in two layers of black undersuit, still soaking wet and shivering, a knife in her trembling hand, the body of a good man lying beside her, a man who had survived everything this nasty world could throw at him except for her arrival.
Juliette moved to Solo’s side and reached for his neck. Her hands were icy; she couldn’t feel a pulse, wasn’t sure if she would be
She struggled to her feet, nearly collapsed, hugged the landing’s railing. She teetered toward the compressor, knowing she needed to warm up. She felt the powerful urge to go to sleep but knew she’d never wake up if she did.
The gas can was still full. She tried to work the cap, but her hands were useless. They were numb and vibrating from the cold. Her breath fogged in front of her, a chilly reminder of the heat she was losing, what little heat she had left.
She grabbed the knife. Holding it in both hands, she pressed the tip into the cap. The flat handle was easier to grasp than the plastic cap; she spun the knife and cracked the lid on the jug of gas. Once the cap was loose, she pulled the blade out and did the rest with her palms, the knife resting in her lap.
She tilted the can over the compressor, soaking the large rubber wheels, the carriage, the entire motor. She would never want to use it again anyway, never rely on it or anything else for her air. She put the can down, still half full, and slid it away from the compressor with her foot. Gas dripped through the metal grating and made musical impacts in the water below, drips that echoed off the concrete walls of the stairwell, that added to the flood’s toxic and colorful slick.
Wielding the knife with the blade down, the dull side away from her, she smacked it against the metal fins of the heat exchanger. She yanked her arm back with each strike, expecting the whoosh of an immediate flame. But there was no spark. She hit it harder, hating to abuse her precious tool, her only defense. Solo’s stillness nearby was a reminder that she might need it if she were able to survive the deadly cold—
The knife struck with a snick, there was a pop, heat traveling up her arm, a wash of it against her face.
Juliette dropped the knife and waved her hand, but it wasn’t on fire. The compressor
As it began to die down, she grabbed the can and sloshed some more, large balls of orange flame rewarding her, leaping up in the air with a hiss. The wheels crackled as they burned. Juliette collapsed close to the fire, felt the heat from the dancing flame as it burned all across the metal machine. She began to strip, her eyes returning now and then to Solo, promising herself that she wouldn’t leave his body there, that she would come back for him.
Feeling slowly returned to her extremities. Gradually, but then with a tingling pain. Naked, she curled into a ball next to the small and feeble fire and rubbed her hands together, breathing her warm and visible breath into her palms. Twice, she had to feed the hungry and stingy fire. Only the wheels burned reliably, but they kept her from needing another spark. The glorious heat traveled somewhat through the landing’s grated decking, warming her bare skin where it touched the metal.
Her teeth chattered violently. Juliette eyed the stairs, this new fear coursing through her that boots could rumble down at any moment, that she was trapped between these other survivors and the freezing water. She retrieved her knife, held it in front of her with both hands, tried to will herself to not shiver so violently.
Glimpses of her face in the blade caused her to worry more. She looked as pale as a ghost. Lips purple, eyes ringed dark and seeming hollow. She nearly laughed at the sight of her lips vibrating, the clacking blur of her teeth. She scooted closer to the fire. The orange light danced on the blade. The unburnt fuel dripped and formed silvery splashes of color below.
As the last of the gas burned and the flames dwindled, Juliette decided to move. She was still shaking, but it was cold in the depths of the shaft so far from the electricity of IT. She patted the black underlinings she’d stripped off. One of them had been left balled up and was still soaked. The other she’d been lucky to have dropped flat, hadn’t been thinking clearly or she would’ve hung it up. It was damp, but better to wear it and heat it up than allow the cold air to wick her body temperature away. She worked her legs in, struggled to get her arms through the sleeves, zipped up the front.
On bare, numb, and unsteady feet, she returned to Solo. She could feel his neck this time. He felt warm. She couldn’t remember how long a body stayed that way. And then she felt a weak and slow thrumming in his neck. A beat.
“Solo!” She shook his shoulders. “Hey—” What name had he whispered? She remembered: “Jimmy!”
His head lolled from side to side while she shook his shoulder. She checked his scalp beneath all that crazy hair, saw lots of blood. Most of it was dry. She looked around again for her bag—they had brought food, water, and dry clothes for when she got back up—but the satchel was gone. She grabbed her other undersuit instead. She wasn’t sure about the quality of the water in the fabric, but it had to be better than nothing. Wrenching the material in a tight ball, she dripped what she could against his lips. She squeezed more on his head, brushed his hair back to inspect the wound, probed the nasty cut with her fingers. As soon as the water hit the open gash, it was like pushing a button. Solo lurched to the side, away from her hand and the drip from the undersuit. His teeth flashed yellow in his beard as he hissed in pain, his hands rising from the landing and hovering there, arms tensed, still senseless.
“Solo. Hey, it’s okay.”
She held him as he came to, his eyes rolling around, lids blinking.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She used the balled-up undersuit to dab at his wound. Solo grunted and held her wrist but didn’t pull away.
“Stings,” he said. He blinked and looked around. “Where am I?”
“The down deep,” she reminded him, happy to hear him talking. She felt like crying with relief. “I think you were attacked—”
He tried to sit up, hissing between his teeth, a powerful grip pinching her wrist.
“Easy,” she said, trying to hold him down. “You’ve got a nasty cut on your head. A lot of swelling.”
His body relaxed.
